Ghost Bully

by Brian Corley

  “Maybe we should eat a sandwich first. Wait—are you seriously going to use an eight-inch butcher knife to cut a piece of cobbler?” I asked.

  “I’m a grown man, Jonah. I’ll do what I want. If I see cobbler, I eat cobbler. There is fruit,” he said, opening the freezer door. “There is dairy.” He snagged a half-pint of vanilla-bean ice cream. “And there is sugar. The three major food groups. Plus, I worked out today, so it all comes out even.”

  Max set the ice cream down on the counter with the knife on top of it and started rummaging through drawers for a spoon. I could tell he was looking for one due to his efficient and direct way of communicating: “Spoon! Spoon! Spoon!”

  Opening the drawer nearest me, I grabbed a spoon and tossed it over while taking one for myself as well. Max handed me the knife as I grabbed a plate and slice of my own and put it in the microwave.

  “You think of everything,” Max said, apparently envious of my foresight to warm up the cobbler before putting ice cream on top of it.

  “If the Scouts taught me one thing, it’s to be prepared.”

  “You were in the Scouts?”

  “Nope. How was your day?”

  “It was great. Answered a bunch of emails, filed some files, and Photoshopped the ghost of this house atop Mount Wallet&Keys.”

  Max was a paralegal at a local law firm. He scored high on the LSAT but didn’t make it into the Austin Law School, an enormous state-sponsored institution known for litigation (both in protection of its naming rights as well as its training of attorneys).

  Plan B was to move to Austin, land a job at his current place of employment, make a connection with one of the partners who could put in a good word for him, and generally have fun with little to no responsibilities in the interim. He successfully accomplished three of the four, and was working to complete the set.

  “Will you pass along my thanks to Nic for digging up that information for us?” I asked.

  “You bet, if only to give her the opportunity to say something passive-aggressive about you. She destroys you when you’re not around. How was yours? What did your bosses take credit for today?”

  “She wrecks me when I’m there to hear it—I can only imagine what she says when I’m not. Eh, my day was fine, they were fine,” I replied.

  “Don’t get me wrong—I think it’s cool that you stand idly by while they grab hold of any innovation you create as their own. I just don’t understand why you don’t stand up for yourself like you used to.”

  “Well, they’re my bosses, not some random guy mouthing off in a dorm. I count on them for, you know, money.”

  Max gave me a sarcastic “OK” signal as he scarfed down ice cream and cobbler.

  “You think the house is haunted?” I asked.

  It was a horrible transition.

  “No, I think the house is great. The landlord is a little strange, but aside from that, it’s fine. I don’t believe in ghosts, and neither do you,” he replied as he dumped his plate and spoon into the sink. “Now, let’s go save the world.”

  Max rubbed his hands together, wiping off crumbs, and set off toward the living room to fire up the Xbox. I’ve known Max for a while and could tell he wanted to cheer me up, but he was wrong about one thing. I did believe in ghosts, and we lived with one. Well. We lived; the ghost was dead.

  “Willard’s a weird name,” Max said, staring straight ahead at the TV.

  “Your mom had a dog named Max growing up. You’re named after a dog. You want to throw stones in a glass house?” I replied.

  “Glass? I thought it was wood siding. Think it’s still too late for a refund?”

  “Probably, but I’ll—”

  The click and thud of a door closing interrupted me. Max heard it too. Our heads turned to the source of the noise.

  My room.

  The sound of our characters dying from the first-person-shooter played on in the background. Both sides of the screen came up, asking if we wanted to respawn.

  We sat silently as the game’s soundtrack softly played in the background. Why did it have to sound so eerie?

  A smirk grew on Max’s face, as though he were about to break the tension, when we heard a clanging from the kitchen.

  We looked at each other and rose off the couch as though we had years of military training. I even walked in a crouch.

  Am I really doing this?

  Moving noiselessly, I crossed the floor to the kitchen, taking a wide berth around the coffee table separating the space between it and the living room.

  There, on the floor, was the eight-inch butcher’s knife Max used to cut the cobbler. The pulpy filling of the blackberry cobbler made it look as though it was streaked with bloody gore, and it was standing handle-end up, the point of the blade stuck in the black-and-white checkerboard laminate tile.

  “Probably just the foundation settling,” Max offered. “Door shut, I had the knife on the counter … yeah, probably the foundation.”

  It didn’t feel like the foundation. It felt like … well, it felt like the heebie-jeebies. It was quiet in the house now. Too quiet. Something was off, literally, because I should have at least heard the fan from the Xbox just five feet away. I walked back into the darker living room to find both the TV and the game system powered down.

  “Did you turn that off?” I asked.

  “No, maybe it’s a power outage?” Max replied.

  “The lights are on in the kitchen, and the lamp is on in my room.”

  “Maybe it’s a breaker. Go check the circuit box.”

  “You go check the circuit box.”

  “Fine, we’ll go together.”

  The quickest way to the breaker box was through the front door and the most direct route to the front door was across the living room. My skin prickled as I made my way between the couch and TV. Both the Xbox and TV came alive as I passed.

  Max and I looked at each other, wide-eyed and slack-jawed.

  “Oh goddammit, this house is haunted,” Max said.

  Chapter 4

  Generally, I was a pragmatic guy. When faced with significant problems, I had a tendency to plan rather than freak out, and I definitely had a big problem: who would buy a haunted house when I was ready to sell?

  Also, the immediate supernatural danger.

  There was no way to deny it any longer, my normal life had taken a bit of a left turn. I walked into the kitchen, erased the word INVESTIGATE and scrawled PARANORMAL INVESTIGATION on the to-do list. I started toward the door and used my best nonverbal communication to indicate Max should follow me out. We hopped into my truck and slowly backed out of the driveway, then drove off down the darkened, tree-lined street.

  “Shoulda packed a bag,” Max said, his tone flat as he stared out the passenger-side window.

  “Huh?” I responded, eloquent as always. “Oh no, we’re going back. We just need to go to the store.”

  “Look, I get you want a balanced meal, but I don’t think the cobbler threw us into hallucinations—or did it? What did that lady feed us?” he said, staring straight ahead.

  I breathed out a small laugh. “Wasn’t the cobbler, and we’re going to pick up a Ouija board.”

  I’d known about Ouija boards for most of my life, from seeing them in movies to the stories we probably all heard about where someone we went to school with in junior high played with one at a sleepover, then suffered uncontrolled nosebleeds. Come to think of it, seemed like a lot of people had that friend. Maybe the story wasn’t true after all.

  The Ouija board, or some variation of it, has been used for hundreds of years in one form or another to talk to the spirits of the departed, but Hasbro has “Ouija” trademarked. Take that mystics! Luckily for us, they also sell them at huge, big-box retailers, which was where we were headed.

  “A Ouija board, are you serious?” Max aske
d.

  “Yes, I want to talk to this guy. Maybe we can help him move on … or move out. We don’t need a roommate that won’t contribute financially,” I said.

  “True, and with that guy’s credit history—come on, how do we know it’s even him? What if it’s something else? I can’t believe we’re talking like this! Who has ghosts, and if so, who doesn’t move immediately?!”

  “I can answer that: us, and us. Dude, I just signed the next thirty years of my life away. Or at least the next two years if the market is still hot so I can use the homeowner’s exemption to forego capital-gains taxes.”

  I said that. This is who I had become.

  We merged onto the Ben White loop, or highway—whatever Ben White was in Austin—and drove in silence until we exited and pulled into the parking lot at the big-box store.

  Some say the mark of true friendship is being able to abide comfortably in silence, so it’s safe to say that based on those last fifteen minutes, Max and I were the best of friends.

  We exited the truck on a mission, our faces set in action-movie mode. We walked into the store as though we were in slow motion, a camera in front of us documenting our every move as we geared up for battle.

  “Maybe we should get some candles,” Max whisper-growled as though Clint Eastwood was offering interior decorating advice for a séance.

  “Unscented,” I said in my best Vin Diesel.

  We acknowledged each other with a slow-motion nod.

  Tarantino-style music kicked off inside my head as we parted ways, Max to home décor, me to the toy section. Candyland, Battleship, Trivial Pursuit, Clue … I scanned the shelves for my portal to another world. Chutes and Ladders, Connect Four—pointing to help my eyes account for the games and check them off until—bingo.

  Well, not bingo, that was over to the right next to Barrel of Monkeys. “Bingo” in that I found the Ouija board. Twenty bucks—reasonable.

  The music in my head kicked back in as I pulled a box from the shelf and made my way back into the depths of the store, searching for my best friend. I found him, brow furrowed in consternation. He had gone back for a cart that was now filled with various sizes and shapes of candles, air fresheners, and Nag Champa incense.

  “Oh my god, what have you done? Look at all this stuff,” I said.

  “Couldn’t find any unscented candles and now I can’t decide between lavender and vanilla. I just want to make sure we have options. What do you think of melon?”

  He closed his eyes and sniffed the fragrance from a five-dollar candle housed in a small bucket.

  “I think edit down. The incense is a nice touch—grab that and the vanilla candles. Lavender makes me sleepy.”

  “You got it.”

  He put the incense in his back pocket and scooped up the vanilla-scented candles in his arms, leaving a cart full of various candles behind. It was kind of a dick move—someone was going to have to put those back—but now was not the time for store-etiquette lessons. Now was the time to check out … and then communicate with an otherworldly spirit.

  We exited through the automatic doors in near silence, the clattering of shopping cart wheels around the parking lot almost serving as a mantra for meditation as we headed out to the truck. We each stowed our bags, got in, shut the doors, and looked straight ahead.

  We continued this way—focusing in, maybe zoning out—until Max finally broke the silence.

  “What are we going to say?”

  “Well … we’re going to ask who he is, why he’s doing this, and what he thinks of our candle selection,” I replied.

  “We should have gone for the melon. I know it’s a little out of season but it was sixty percent off, and the scent was just a delight.”

  “Do you want me to turn around?”

  “No, I mean we’re almost home. It’s just such a shame,” Max said. “Don’t we already know who he is? Also, if you’re not sure, why would you just assume the spirit is a he? Not very open-minded of you Jonah. I’m very disappointed.”

  “You make a good point—two good points. We need to keep an open mind about who or what we’re going to encounter.”

  “Jonah, if I end up possessed by the spawn of Satan, I swear I am going to be so pissed at you. Since it would be your fault anyway, I would appreciate it if you would just let us take over the world. It’s the least you could do.”

  “Of course, Max. I wouldn’t dream of standing in the way of your co-world domination. Best of luck to you and your new overlord.”

  Once home, I pulled all the way into the drive and turned the truck off. Max and I entered the house through the kitchen and started unpacking the bags like it was our job.

  I unlocked my phone and did a quick search for ways to set up a Ouija board for optimal results. I kluged together a hodgepodge of ideas that paired well with the materials we had on hand.

  We needed a clear space, so we chose the empty breakfast area in the kitchen; plus, since both my wallet and keys turned up there after going missing, it seemed like a great fit. The search pulled up results that said incense both draws and repels spirits, but we’d bought some, so by god, we were going to use it. Hopefully, it was the type that attracted.

  Max lit a couple and set them toward the back of the kitchen—just in case. I read that we should arrange our candles in a circle nine feet in diameter. We did our best, using a tape measure and some string, and set the board in the

  middle.

  “Ready?” I asked.

  “I guess. Jonah, I don’t feel right about this. Whatever happens, I’m going to church on Sunday.”

  “If we make it until Sunday, muahaha.”

  Max rolled his eyes. “Let’s light these candles and get this show on the road.”

  With the candles lit, we sat cross-legged on the floor with the board between us. I positioned the planchette (pointer thing, kind of like a plastic cursor icon) at the letter G, and put two fingers gently down on the middle.

  The instructions I read suggested an opening greeting to invite the spirits in. I cleared my throat.

  “Thanks to everyone for making it out tonight. Just want to let you know we have a great séance planned. Over here, we have my best friend, Max, on the planchette. Thanks, Max.”

  Max raised his hand and waved to the potential spirits in the room.

  “We’ve gathered some of the best scented candles as well as the finest incense that can be found at America’s largest retailer … just for you! I’m Jonah, your host for tonight. Now let’s give it up for the supernatural!”

  “You watch too much TV,” Max mumbled under his breath.

  The air chilled, and the planchette moved to “hello.” We both jumped, knowing instinctively that neither of us moved it.

  “How many spirits are here?” I asked.

  The planchette moved to the number one.

  “Did you used to live here?”

  Planchette moved to “Yes.”

  “Are you Willard Hensch?”

  Planchette moved away and then back to “Yes.”

  “Willard, I bought this house after you died. If I assure you that I will take care of it, will you move on?”

  Planchette moved to “No.”

  I cringed. Why was I so direct? Maybe I should have buttered him up first. As if he was just going to say, “OK, now that you asked—sure.”

  “You have been trying to communicate with us. Is there something you would like to say?” I continued.

  “L-E-A-V-E,” the planchette spelled.

  “Willard, I sunk all my money into this house—I can’t leave. Is there a way we can all live together peacefully?”

  The planchette moved quickly to “No.”

  “Why?”

  T-O-O-L-O-U-D

  "We could be qui—”

  T-R-I-E-D-T-O-K-I-C-K-M-E-O-U-T
-W-I-T-H-S-M-U-D-G-E

  ”Sorry about that, we didn’t really think that one through. What can we do to make up fo—”

  C-O-N-S-O-L-E-G-A-M-E-R-N-0-0-B-S

  “Are you serious?” Max asked.

  The planchette moved to “Yes.”

  “No one even talks like that anymore. Who cares about console versus PC?” Max replied.

  I-R-R-E-G-A-R-D-L-E-S-S

  “That’s not even a word! What is wrong with you?” Max replied, slamming his hand on the floor.

  W-H-A-T-S-W-R-O-N-G-W-I-T-H-M-E-W-H-A-T-S-W-R-O-N-G-W-I-T-H-Y-O-U

  “OK, OK, stop it,” I interjected. “I’m the one whose keys were stolen.”

  I-J-U-S-T-M-O-V-E-D-T-H-E-M

  “Alright, let’s focus here. Why don’t you move on, Willard? Can you?”

  I-L-I-K-E-I-T-H-E-R-E

  “We do too. Let’s just all agree to live together—you can have Max’s room.”

  “Or the couch—living room, I mean. You can have the living room,” Max chimed in.

  His eyes went wide.

  “Is ‘living room’ an offensive term to a ghost?” he asked in a whisper.

  H-O-U-S-E-I-S-M-I-N-E-Y-O-U-L-E-A-V-E-P-L-A-C-E-L-O-O-K-S-T-E-R-R-B-L-E-Y-A-R-D-L-O-O-K-S-B-E-T-T-E-R-T-H-O-U-G-H

  “Wow. Both screw you and thank you,” I replied. “I worked hard on the yard.”

  I flashed back to Sunday when I spent the better part of the afternoon mowing, edging, weed-eating, and defining the flower beds with rocks I found around the neighborhood. I spent forever pulling weeds, and frankly, it was nice of someone to notice.

  “Ha, you rhymed.” Max pointed at me, then looked up into the air to address Willard. “And you misspelled ‘terrible.’”

  T-H-I-S-I-S-N-T-E-A-S-Y-A-N-D-T-H-E-R-E-I-S-N-O-P-U-N-C-T-U-A-T-I-O-N

  We laughed.

  S-T-O-P-L-A-U-G-H-I-N-G-A-N-D-L-E-A-V-E-Y-O-U-H-A-V-E-T-W-O-W-E-E-K-S-T-O-L-E-A-V-E

  “Or what?” Max shot.

  “Dude!”

  “What?! He’s being a dick!”